


Of Leaving

by Elanra



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elanra/pseuds/Elanra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nezumi is trapped. In his motel room and in his own mind. Post-series. Nezumi-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_"Where are the people?" resumed the little prince at last. "It's a little lonely in the desert..."  
"It is lonely when you're among people, too" said the snake."  
_ **-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry** , _The Little Prince_

* * *

Nezumi decides he hates rain.

It hasn't stopped for three days and the knee high water flooding the backstreets of No.2 prevents him to go out and make enough money to feed himself. The Bookbinder's Shop is closed. No one in their right mind would go out in a flood to get their books bound anyway. He knows it and there is nothing he can do about it but it still makes him infuriated. He doesn't like to be idle, doesn't like to be left with nothing to do when he can't occupy himself with something and focus on the pain on his calloused hands as he bends and bends and bends and just… doesn't think.

The last time he has put food in his mouth was two days ago when he had begrudgingly eaten the only thing edible he had left; a piece of stale bread and some left-over dried plums. His stomach grumbles where he lays and even his dated copy of  _Paradise Lost_ with its weathered yellow pages can't keep his mind off of how painfully hungry he is. Nezumi pushes himself off the bed and walks to the window maybe for the sixth time that day.

The saturnine sky shows no sign of clearing as the thick, leaden clouds swirl and move with intimidating speed. The rain patters against his window **―** a mere layer of glass, too thin to keep the cold out **―**  and the tin roof above his head. The only cooking pot he has is on the floor, aligned under the largest crack on his ceiling to hold the water seeping in. The sound of it dripping inside the make-shift pool drives Nezumi insane. He has already lost count of times he has had to get up and empty the pot to prevent it from overflowing on his mold infested and creaking floorboards.

He hates being trapped like this. He hates being stationary, not being able to move, to get away… not being able to  _run._  This solitude is the very thing he can no longer stand. He hates being confined in his own mind. He hates that low whisper reigning over his thoughts when there is nothing louder to shut it out. He hates the way he can't distract himself from it when his hands and feet have nothing to do. He can't stop  _the feeling… the urge_ stir right behind the walls he has put up to distance himself from everything he needs to get away from. He can feel it crawl, raise its head and writhe behind layers and layers of defenses. It lurks in the silence between his heartbeats, waiting for the first moment of weakness to claim him.

He glares at the sky and thinks he hates gray too. It's the color of unforgiving cold and  _ash_  and the entire dome creaking above his head is gray and gray and infinitely gray as far as the eyes can see. There is no brilliance, no light, no opening. Just a dull, merciless color of everything dead. It's almost impossible to believe the sky is as blue as ever above the thick layer of clouds.

**_Drip. Drip._ **

**―** _What the fuck am I doing here... I should have gone to No.4 with those gypsies I met on my way to this rotten place. Even a tent would be better than this pathetic excuse of a room._

**Chirp, chirp, chirp.**

Nezumi turns his head to look at the low chirping. Hamlet is on his hind legs on the bed, apparently no longer asleep in Nezumi's scarf where his master left it there for him and his brown friend to nestle in.

"Sorry, Hamlet. It seems we'll sleep hungry today too."

Hamlet scurries down the bed and climbs up Nezumi's shoulder. Nuzzling his tiny nose against his ear he chirps and Nezumi raises his hand to stroke him with cold fingers. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. The iciness of the wind outside pushes against the glass and Nezumi feels his forehead go numb in a matter of seconds but he doesn't pull away. It's comforting in a way that it is cold enough to halt his thought process. He breathes and watches his breath dye the window glass with more of the gray he despises.

"It'll probably clear in a few hours. Then I'll go try to scrounge a bit of bread or maybe some meat if I can find any unless I can convince them to accept a day's delay in payment… Hang in there only a bit longer, alright?"

Hamlet's light weight on his shoulder and the warmth of his tiny body is the only source of heat in his entire room. He lets slip an acid smile as another memory fragment flashes in the most secluded parts of his mind despite the haze in his head caused by the wave of hunger and sleep deprivation. The ghost of a hand; warm and gentle, closes around his own.

**―** _No._  Nezumi grits his teeth.

**―** _Don't you go there._

**―** _Don't you dare… go there._

Nezumi stares into the gray a bit longer and then pushes away from the window. Going back to his bed he sinks down on the hard mattress. Hamlet jumps from his shoulder and goes back to curl up with Cravat as his master pulls the single rag of a blanket over himself and picks up  _Paradise Lost_ again.

For an hour or so Nezumi  _really_ tries to focus on the book despite the clamor of the storm and the dripping of the water. At Book IX he gets up to empty the pot in the sink again only to lie back down and clench his jaw to keep from shivering. He pulls his legs up to his chest to preserve his body heat but with no food to burn and consequently keep him warm; he is plainly freezing. He locks his jaw to prevent the involuntary shudders and forces his mind to focus on the book.

_So dear I love him that with him, all deaths  
I could endure. Without him, live no life._

Nezumi is suddenly assaulted with the fiery urge to throw the book across the room as his eyes flare up but instead he closes it shut, tosses it on the bed and turns his back to the room, facing the wall. The once creamy yellow paint of it has faded into a pale ivory in time. There are so many cracks in the plaster Nezumi thinks it looks like a huge basket made of straw.

**―** _A basket of mice,_ he thinks to himself.  _A basket of mice left in a river. We just don't have any pampered royalty to save us from drowning._

Nezumi smiles bitterly at his own weakness as his hands clench tightly around his forearms pressed firmly against his shivering form. Like the rabid rain seeping into his decrepit motel room through layers of tin, planks of wood and straw,  ** _he_** is seeping into his mind. The cold is driving him insane. The only memory of warmth he has, glows crystalline behind his eyelids, taunting his petty, desultory efforts to ignore it. Such a glorious invitation… A mirage for his tired eyes… a slow burning fire for his frigid bones… a forbidden consolation for his worn heart. Like a siren's call in the infinite depths of a livid ocean, Nezumi is drawn to it. He is too cold to turn his back to it. Too hungry to fight. Too tired to pretend. He closes his eyes.

**_It's the scent that wakes him up. Filling his lungs with each languid inhalation; it is so close, so poignant. His hazy mind frees itself from the arms of sleep and Nezumi's eyes open._ **

**_He is holding him. Sometime during the night, he has turned around from the wall, towards the boy he is sharing his bed with and he has held him. Drawn to his warmth, his vitality, his peacefulness… it isn't the first time this has happened but never once before, had he found himself breathing against the pale scar coiling around that frail neck. The tips of white locks brush against the bridge of his nose, his lips merely a few millimeters away from the fiery skin._ **

**_He needs to pull away (His arms won't move).. turn around and let the boy go (his body remains still) He needs to put distance between them (He can feel his heartbeat) He needs to stop breathing him in (another inhale leaks into his lungs)._ **

**_Nezumi feels lightheaded. The boy is asleep, he can hear him breathe. Evenly, regularly.._ ** **beautifully.** _**His skin is burning** _ **―** **_how can someone be so warm?_ ** **―** **_his lips ache to feel the fire emitting from it. The longing stirs in the core of his being, his breath hitches against the red snake, his head spins, the hair on his arms stands on ends…_ **

**_._ ** **_.. Nezumi turns away._ **

The coldness of his hand at the first touch almost makes him gasp. He grits his teeth. His palm moves and every insubstantial defense, every lie, every layer he has put up in the expanse of three years he has been traveling, shatters into pieces. Memories flood into his mind, tingle across his skin, burn in his eyes and pierce his heart. Nezumi lets out a subdued moan; a pained sound filled with everything he hates to hear in his voice.

**_"I'm glad I met you."_ **

**_It is barely a whisper. The boy leans down; crimson eyes hold his own gaze and lips brush against his._ **

**_A feather-light touch of velvet fire. Such a sweet poison._ **

**_Such audacity. Such arrogance._ **

**_Such a beautiful lie._ **

**_Nezumi feels his heart ache._ **

Silver eyes glow through long eyelashes. Nezumi turns his head to stifle his pants into the unyielding felting of his pillow. He feels like he is drawing bits and remnants of warmth from his memories by force. They shoot through his nerves, prickling across his icy skin and gather in the core of his being. His hand moves, his heart races…

…  _he_ is looking at him.

**_The hand around his arm tightens._ **

**_The boy speaks, voice small, fleeting… he is crying._ **

**_"Nezumi, the world means nothing to me without you. Nothing."_ **

**_Nezumi hooks a finger on his chin and makes the boy meet his gaze._ **

**_A sea of crimson greets him. He stares into a pair of knowing eyes.. knowing and hurting._ **

**_―Ah… so you've finally realized, haven't you?_ **

**_―Now, you also understand.. what this is._ **

**_He speaks to the boy teasingly. His feet tingle with the call of the earth. His body light, ready to take flight. He will leave. He will leave now. The boy needs to understand._ **

**_"Nezumi, I'm serious_ ** **―** **_" is all the boy says.. all he_ ** **can** **_say before Nezumi's lips break the gasp that spills from his mouth. He can't pull back and yet he has to. He has to keep it short, chaste, fluttery… his will crumbles, lips cave in, they claim the warmth fiercely. The taste explodes in his mouth, a heady aphrodisiac. He is stealing a moment of heaven from the boy he is indefinitely condemning to hell._ **

The name ascends with the blinding heat in his abdomen. Nezumi's free hand fists around the pillow as he groans into it. His heart is in his throat; with every staggering beat it bleeds out tears he will not cry. With each move of his hand, Nezumi pulls out the blazing fire within his body. Eyes shut tight to keep out the sight of his pathetic life, ears deaf to the endless dripping sound, Nezumi heaves a savaging sigh. Tremulous and deep, he exhales and the name spills through his cracked lips, rustling against the fiber of his flavescent pillowcase,

"Shion…"

**_"I am drawn to you, Nezumi."_ **

"Shion…"

**_"Nothing scares me more than the thought of losing you, Nezumi."_ **

"..Shhion…"

**_"Don't go, Nezumi. I want to be by your side. I want you to be by my side. That's all I wish for."_ **

"Shi **―** on…"

Last vowels of his name drown in an elision. Nezumi feels his sanity, his reason, his sense of reality hang at the end of a filament. Waves of fire inexorably lick across his skin, riding his heartbeat to the peak and stripping him of the air in his chest. A flash of light leaves its imprint on his retinas as his body shakes uncontrollably with a release almost too powerful for his weakened state. His lips part, forehead pressed against the pillow and Nezumi feels the warmth spread out and envelope him, much like Shion's arms did, so many years ago. For a fraction of a single second he is set free from the pain that has been eating him alive and the longing that has been tugging at the end of each inhale with the weight of tons he can't shoulder. For a mere moment, he can feel arms around him, hear a cheerful voice, see the tender glow of curious red and smell the succulent aroma of the boy he has left behind. For a moment, he can breathe, jagged and unstable and yet, a full breath that feeds every pore of his suffocating body.

It only takes a mere moment for the pain to hit him. Sharp and intense; it jolts through his nerves, disrupting the somnolent waves of his short-lived release. Pulling his hand from in between his legs, Nezumi stares at his white coated fingers. The wetness on his skin catches on the cold as few drops slid down his wrist. He forces a haughty smile on his lips but it breaks before it's completely fabricated. His sight goes blurry, his body shrinks, shaking under the single blanket he has and Nezumi lies in his bed, doing what he has always done the best  **―** surviving, until he falls asleep with the taste of salt on his lips.


	2. Of Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Shion wonders if that'll also be his fate. Living out his life waiting. Post-Series. Shion-centric.

_"The wait is long, my dream of you does not end."_   
**― Nuala O'Faolain, My Dream of You**

* * *

The biting chill of the winter wind cannot infiltrate the artificial warmth of the car. Shion watches the world outside whiz by in a blur he doesn't bother focusing on. He is just looking out, eyes void of any emotion; distant, indifferent. People fade in the distance as new ones join the view only to dissolve from his sight.  _So many of them_ , he thinks fleetingly. Walking, eating, waiting at bus stations, talking, shopping… so many of them living all around him. No.6 has never housed people in such great numbers before.

It feels suffocating.

Somewhere along the way he has realized, although all that he has been doing for three years has a great importance and meaning for thousands of people in this city, although he has a huge responsibility he has tried his hardest to fulfill since he has shouldered it—for he still has promises he must keep—nothing seems to hold any meaning to him anymore. He feels a sore weakness, an open wound sensitive to the slightest touch in the very core of his being. Like the throbbing pain of a tooth hollowed out with cavities being exposed to cold water, he feels his heart constrict and ache in his chest at the sight and feel of everything he knows is  _incomplete._

Shion feels tired. He is so, very  _tired_.

_"… were informed that the residents of No.2 in lower areas have been warned to stay indoors. All other city-states are currently on stand-by, waiting for the relentless rain to cease to be able to send help to the flooded parts of the city. The mayor of No.4 addressed the matter on an emergency press conference earlier today. The Mayor has informed…"_

The floating screen above the console shows a pretty woman with a small audio transducer attached to an opaque earpiece. She is standing in front of tall, crystalline windows _—_ the caption on the screen defines the building she is in as 'City Hall of No.2' _—_ as she speaks pointing towards the view behind her. The camera's angle has been adjusted to allow the viewers to get a full sight of the clamor of rain attacking the windows and the trees bowing against the wind's force.

"I hope it clears out soon."

Shion's mind barely registers the words spoken by the man driving the car. He absent-mindedly glances at the reporter before the images switch to that of a press conference. Presumably, the speech given by the mayor of No.4. Shion recognizes him a second later.

"Yeah," he replies to his assistant. "I hope so too."

As he watches the disastrous flood the rain has caused in No.2, all he feels is a sore longing. He wants to be under that downpour, feel it patter against his skin, seep into his hair, run down his arms, down his face, his neck and put out that dull, dry burning fire eating him alive from the inside. He wants to let it tear its way inside him like hurricanes uproot trees and drag out a scream from the very depths of his body. It would be a scream of solitary desperation. A scream of uprising against everything expected of him. A scream of protest for what was asked of him _—_ to bide his time, to stay.. _to wait—_ until he could no longer shout, until his lungs ached and his hands loosened on both sides of him; leaving red crescents on the insides of his palms; until holding back his tears no longer mattered. Until the realization sank in that no matter how long or how loud he screamed,  _he_  would not hear him.

The sky stretches leaden and impenetrable above the city. Shion stares into it, trying to will it to crumble, to shatter into pieces with blinding lightning and ground shaking thunder. If he could, he would summon the storm in No.2 here at this moment. He would watch as clouds gathered and throbbed with a looming gale. He would savor the sight of brilliant lightning reflect off the countless windows adorning No.6 in a furious white. Let the rain pour down onto the city he has slowly begun to resent. So that he could push his balcony doors open at his apartment and stand under the storm beneath that glowing grey. He has always loved grey… the grey of stormy skies. The grey of breaking dawn. The grey of moonlit skies —the grey of his eyes— but this grey above his head is unforgiving. Its arid, lifeless, heavy with things impending and frozen in limbo… just like him _._

"Shion-san?"

Shion turns his head to face his assistant. Tori is looking at him with a bemused expression. Warm brown eyes are careful and focused as he glances at him before looking back at the road as he drives.

"I am sorry, Tori. Did you ask me something?" Shion feels bad for letting his thoughts carry him away. Tori is a good man; intelligent and kind —like many people around him. He deserves better treatment. He at least deserves his full attention.

"You seem occupied, Shion-san. Are you concerned about the Memorial Day preparations?"

The Memorial Day… The day Shion helped the collapse of the previous governing body of No.6. The day hundreds of people were victims of Elyurias' rage, of soldiers' guns, of their own comrades as they ran over their fallen bodies to escape their own deaths. Memorial Day was now celebrated every year to remember and honor all those that had died in the hands of the previous government. This would be Shion's third time witnessing it… All citizens of No.6 wearing black and visiting the Rose Cemetery—the place where the fallen were buried or immortalized with empty graves; families uniting if only for two days no matter how far their daily lives might push them apart, meals being shared, distant phone calls being made… It was a day about remembering and understanding not to take anything, not to take anyone for granted.

"No, Tori, I am not. I am just tired." Shion offers a gentle smile at his assistant.

"You haven't been resting for weeks. You haven't taken a day off since last December." Tori knits his eyebrows. Shion thinks he looks older than his age when he has that look on his face. "I wish you relied on me more, Shion-san. I am your assistant; it is my job to help you."

The car stops in front of a pair of unpretentious apartments. Tori shifts the gear to full stop and turns to look at him fully with a respectful sincerity in his eyes.

"You don't need to do everything alone."

Although he is three years older than Shion, Tori has the unstoppable eagerness and energy of a teenage boy; earnest and ambitious and at times overly excited. He is skilled and intelligent; declared 'special' at the age of two just like Shion had been. He also has life gushing out from every pore of him and that's something Shion isn't able to find within himself lately. He thinks he is becoming more like the senior members of the Reconstruction Committee. Thoughtful, quiet and always busy.

Sometimes, Shion thinks he is getting old.

"I am not doing everything alone. Everyone in the committee and you too, Tori, already help me out so much." He smiles again. The expression is strained. He can feel it tug reluctantly at his facial muscles but he smiles anyway. "Please, don't worry about me." Opening the door, Shion steps out of the car, keeping his hand on the roof, he leans in and adds "See you in two days. Take it easy."

Before he closes the door he hears Tori speak.

"Shion-san."

"Yes?"

There is silence. Tori stares at him with a heavy expression that makes Shion's stomach tense. His steadfast brown eyes are too knowing for his liking.

"See you on Monday, Shion-san." His voice is firm, determined. For a moment Shion wants to laugh at how serious he sounds. It isn't as if Shion  _could_ do anything else but show up. He will be there at his duty on Monday and the next Monday too and the Monday two months later as well. The shallow smile he has learned to adorn at any given moment returns.

"See you on Monday, Tori. Thanks for the ride."

Shion walks to his apartment and doesn't look back. He doesn't hear Tori start the car until he enters the building and after that, he is alone. Ignoring the elevator, he takes the stairs and climbs two floors before he is standing in front of his door, fishing for his keys in his pocket.

Silence greets him. For a split moment he stands there confused, half expecting to hear the sound of soft scurry and gentle squeaking before he remembers there will not be either of that. His jaw clenches as his heart is squeezed painfully between beats.

It has been over two months already and Shion still hasn't gotten used to it. It feels like he never will. His only companion in the darkest hours of the night and the only thing making his apartment feel a bit like home is gone.

Tsukiyo had lived out his life. Longer than Shion had hoped he would but… it hadn't make his death any easier. The jet black mouse with glowing obsidian eyes had died on Shion's bed; in his hands. The whistle of his breathing and the slowing of his heart was permanently etched In Shion's memory. He would never be able to forget the way his little body had shook before his last breath or the way his claws had weakly scratched Shion's palms in a final attempt to fight before going limb. Shion had skipped work that day... that was the last time he had taken a day off. On December.

Sometimes, Shion wonders if that'll also be his fate. Living out his life waiting.

Dropping his keys in an unused ashtray on the coffee table while tugging at the tie around his neck, Shion tries to avoid glancing at the tiny pet bed still sitting in front of his tall windows. He sheds his coat, throwing it at the back of his couch and walks to his bedroom.

His reflection on the mirror leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Day by day he sees himself changing and it's a process he cannot stop. The change is not just on the surface. It isn't in the slow growing of white locks or the maturing of the bone frames. It isn't in the couple of extra inches added to his height nor is it in the amorphous muscle tissue that he has gained in his legs. The real change is deep within and it makes him grimace at his vision. It's the way he smiles, corners of his lips easily curving upwards in a beguile expression even he can read—despite his innate cluelessness like someone used to say. It's the way his eyes look so dull. As if nothing in the world could remotely interest him, as if he would rather sit somewhere without moving for hours and watch the sky than make an attempt for anything else. It's the way he can't find an ounce of hint on his face that suggests that's not what he wants.

No wonder people keep checking on him. His mother, Inukashi, Rikiga-san. Even Tori.

Shion wishes they would understand that he is no danger to himself. That he is bound by three words so inexorably he can do nothing but living his day clinging onto them.  _Wake up because_ _ **reunion will come**_ _. Go to work because _ **reunion will come**_ _._  Live, Shion, because _ _ **reunion will come.**_

" _I want you to stay as Shion"_ , he had said once. Shion has already failed that one.

"… _you'll be murdering two people…"_  
He still remembers the pain behind those words. He can at least make sure he isn't killing anyone else.

Warm water soaks into his hair in a matter of seconds, making his fringes stick to his forehead and temples; tickling the nape of his neck. Shion presses both hands against the shower wall, letting the water trickle down his body and wash away the day's weight. It's a lost cause really, since the weight on his shoulders is no burden a shower can abrade but it's a routine and routine is what he needs so he sticks to it.

Wash, rinse, repeat… Before the eucalyptus scent of his shampoo can suffuse his bathroom, Shion is done. But he stands under the water, listening to the steady sound and thinking about the rain, open windows, and stitching shoulder injuries. A hand on the wall, the other over his chest, as if the physical weight would help hold himself together, Shion closes his eyes to the rush of memories. His palm slides down his stomach, over the raise of his hipbone and comes to a stop on his left thigh where the tip of his middle finger absently traces the scar left by a bullet graze.

Shion clenches his jaw as his head falls down.

_I am alive, Nezumi._

_It's been three years and I am still alive._

The memory jumps fresh and vibrant in his mind, playing before his eyes. A pair of quicksilver eyes peering into his face, fingers hooked on his chin and a voice as mystifying as ever; deep and stimulating from within. Nothing has changed. He caves. His body responds.

— _Do you regret it? Do you regret staying alive?_

Shion feels his eyes burn beneath closed eyelids. He presses his hand against his lower abdomen as if it would help ease the chronic ache that's settled there. The water hits his sore skin, warmth seeping into him. His heart quickens in recognition, at the mere memory of the voice that haunts him.

_No, Nezumi. I want to live. I still want to live._

A smile graces his thin lips. It's one of his rare smiles Shion can see flicker in his eyes. Proud, praising; affectionate even.

_There's a good boy._

A low sound echoes in the bathroom; a sound split between a breathless sob and a quiet whimper. Shion rests his arm on the shower wall, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as shame tints his face in red. His other hand moves with a rhythm matching his heartbeat; increasing with every flash of deep grey eyes burning behind his eyelids.

— _You are not half-bad, he says while humming a tune for their dance. There is a pleasant surprise in his voice and a lot more in his steady gaze. Shion can't look away. He feels the urge hit him; foreign, unfamiliar, ever so pressing. He is only a few inches away… so close… too far away._

"Nnnh," Shion breaths out against the tiles. A slip of his thumb over sensitive skin breaks a violent shiver down his spine, the movement ending with a roll of his hips into his hand. His lips part in an inaudible groan; chest rising to enunciate the name his lips yearn to call. It remains locked in his throat, fueling his desperation.

_He has denied crying but he can taste his own tears in the kiss. Nezumi kisses just like the way he dances… the way he fights… the way he lives. Untamed and wild and with all of his being. Shion is dizzy with the mere foreshadowing and then all at once, the taste of Nezumi is pouring into him. Liquid fire and velvety sweetness flood into his mouth with a fierceness and hunger that tears him apart at the seams. It's easy to break down in his arms, almost inviting in a way Nezumi would not understand—or maybe he would and Shion doesn't know which is worse_ — _and for that reason Shion holds back, gulps down the bulk of his protest, his objection; his plea:_ _ **Stay, stay, stay.**_

With maddening reluctance heat pools into his lap. At the peak of his desperate search for release Shion feels a strange sort of satisfaction in the way he imagines  _him_ ; without his permission and knowledge, a feeble revenge for what he has taken from him. His heart thunders in his chest. He breathes hard and in unsteady bursts; every inhale bordering on gasps. His abdomen convulses, each wave of his impending climax throbbing within the core of his being.

"Nezumi…"

The sound of his name spills from his lips in a needful moan. His palm moves as hot tears slide down his cheeks.

_He keeps staring at him, a smile playing on his lips._

_Cold fingertips trace the scar winding around his chest._

_The same hand cups the side of his face._

_Limbs tangle with his at the dead hours of the night in a small single bed, when he is too soundly asleep to remember keeping his distance. A kind of warmth so intoxicating Shion loses himself in it._

"Nezumiii…"

The last vowels fade into the sound of running water. Shion is shaking from head to toe despite the warmth pouring down on him. Forehead pressed against his arm, he stares blankly into the wall, unable to move, unable to breathe. The headiness of his release tingles in the pores of his body. He feels suspended in the temporary lethargy that comes over him, a sense of bone-deep sedation as if he has been drugged and left in a state of crepuscular consciousness. He is afraid to move, afraid to even think of anything when his whole being feeds off of this brief escape, this little dose of remedy blinding him to the pain in his heart and the hollowness in his soul. But his heartbeat slows in a grinding pace, his drawn-out exhale brushes hotly against his arm and the way shadows grow and claim his bedroom at night; it only takes a moment for the reality to catch up with him; for the true extent of his incompleteness to leak into his oblivion. Shion smiles and then all at once, he is shaking with sobs he can't control. He falls to his knees in the shower, grasping his face with both hands and the sound that rips through his throat is a whimper; lost and excruciated.

Sometimes, Shion thinks those three words were a lie. And he still believes them.

**Author's Note:**

> I am actually sorry for writing this. It has been painful for me but it has been on my mind for ages and it had to be written. After months of postponing it, I finally finished the first chapter. Considering how short it is, its unforgivable that it took me so long but I think... it was the emotions that I was avoiding. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope despite the tone of sorrow and pain, you'll catch what I meant to convey with this. 


End file.
